Me, Thalipeeth !

My FB friend Shilpa Karkare  who lives at Tural, near Ratnagiri,  in Kokan   (on the western coast, south of Mumbai) , recently posted a photograph on the makings of a "Thalipeeth"  ( a traditional savoury dry pancake made from a combination of ground roasted grains, onions, chillies, coriander and sometimes even methi (fenugreek leaves). 

Shilpa runs an organization called Rustic Arts, and the Rustic Holidays Homestay, at Tural , Ratnagiri.  Needless to stay , all the yummy traditional food there is cooked on firewood in her kitchen.

A Thalipeeth made on a non stick teflon pan on a gas flame, on the 12th floor of a metro city highrise is not a patch on the thalipeeth made  on a  "chool" powered by firewood, cooking slow , watched by the particles of fire rising up , as a fresh butter lump lies waiting in the freshly churned buttermilk in a cool corner of the room.

Naturally,  one wondered what the thalipeeth must have thought.

I found out. Once in Marathi, then in English.  

आणि भाजणीबाई , साग्रसंगीत व कांदा-हिरवाईने सजून तव्यावर पडली . नेहमीपेक्षा वेगळं वाटलं …. नेहमी तव्यावर गरम खूप वाटतं, पण मधूनच डोळे दिपवणारा ज्वाळेचा उजेड नसतो. थोडासा ग्यासचा वास असतो , आणि शेजारच्या चुलीवर दूध साई मधून निरखून बघत असते . आज ह्या चुलीवर , सर्पणाचे सुगंध , लाकडांना आठवणारे वृक्ष , मधूनच फुंकणीने उडवलेल्या ठिणग्या , ज्वाळेचा पसंतीचा प्रकाश , आणि भाजणीच्या डाळीना झालेली आपल्या शेतावरच्या बालपणाची आठवण . उगी म्हणत गालावर हळूच वितळ्लेला शुभ्र लोण्याचा गोळा , मिरचीच्या ठेच्याचा चुपचाप घेतलेला शोध , आणि भाजणीबाई एका ताटलीत बसून, एका भुकेल्या छोट्याला सामोरे जातात

And Bhajani Bai, much adorned with onions and greens comes to rest on a hot griddle. Something different ? Usually, the griddle is singing hot, but without the brilliant flashes of a wild flame; a slight whiff on natural gas , and a suspicious look from a milk, peering through the accumulated cream , on the burner alongside. Today, the fragrance of the firewood, memories of the Mother tree, flying flame particles , from a blowing through a pipe, the thalipith glowing in the light of an approving flame, and the grains of the bhajani revelling in their memories of childhood in the fields..... The big comforting blob of homemade butter understands , as it slides across the thalipeeth face. And Bhajani Bai, now Lady Thalipeeth, surreptitiously looks for a hot Mirchi Thecha before going forth in a plate to face a very hungry young man....

Coming of Age of the Ficus Damsels...

My FB and blogger friend , Dhiren Shah aka Hitchwriter , of Bharuch,  keeps taking off for trips frequently  by car,  and  lately has been known to be wandering in the Himachal and Uttarakhand mountains,  accompanied by his family, and his trusted Nikon camera. 

Amidst clicks of dangerous  roads,  waterfalls, mountain peaks,  and steaming tea cups , he managed to click this one of a branch of a wild fig tree, laden with fruits. 

Clearly, not just laden with fruits, but also with meaning.  Two of our common friends immediately commented and said there needs to be a poem on this, and mentioned my name. 

The result may be viewed below ! 

 

The mother Tree
her two deep black eyes
focused far
on the turn
of the mountain road.

Perhaps expecting a visitor.

The family is agog,
the young ones
and cousins,
some all over each other,
some in sensible crowds,
and some peering
and pushing
and generally hanging around
in anticipation.

He arrives,
"the ghost who eats"
a Nikon around his neck,
and glances around,
seeking to
meet the Ficus damsels.

Two of them,
overcome,
simply blush ,
pink in a world
dominated by
green dada figs.

Perhaps ,
they haven't noticed
that the Nikonwala
is standing
with a BB (Bharuchian Beauty)
by his side.....

Roots and Returns

My Fb friend Braja Sorenson ,  a Krishna devotee, author and yoga enthusiast ,   who lives away from the big cities in West Bengal on the banks of a tributary of the Ganga, recently posted this photo,  which could be today's version of Go Dhuli.

Gone are the days when bullocks and buffaloes wandered around amidst the greens daily, getting their meals, possibly supervised by a dog running here and there, as they chewed the cud and snorted back at him. And then , a slow trudge back at sunset , to the home amidst the fields,  amidst the dust kicked up in their own enthusiasm .

Today , the path winds itself through a construction boom, temporary tin sheds, and a long walk back home, trying to dodge those coming in the wrong direction.


Photograph by Braja 

It was so different
in my time, girl !

We wandered and gamboled
near the house,
amidst grassy meadows,
chewing away ,
pretending to listen
to the appointed frisky dog.
And sometimes,
ventured a bit further,
to return at Godhuli,
as the departing sunrays fought with the dust.

Today, like the bipeds,
we commute
distances,
cursed by bricks, concrete,
and some trying to look smart on wheels.
Holes without grass,
ditches without water,
a daily trip
like you
in search of food.

And like you,
we return home
at eventide;
cribbing about roads,
pollution, heat and dust.

Like you we crib about traffic jams.

And like you, we create them ourselves.

We have devolved.

DIPSR, New Delhi !

I have a friend in Delhi who grows , among other things, strawberries in pots in her garden.   Naturally,  she keeps track of their growth, and the environment, and lately  it has come to her attention that someone seems to be taking bite size tastes/tests  of the fruit .  

Pale pink strawberries in their teenage  are a big draw  for the birds, and one wondered why so many fruits are huddling to one side of the pot.

Could it be that the bird beak bite triggers cytokines (the original messaging system in bodies of living beings before SMS's and Whatsapp), and relays advice throughout the plant, about mobilizing for an excellent sweet adult strawberry harvest?

My friend isn't overly concerned.  The birds and squirrels are to be preferred.

 In an age when  torn clothes elicit horror unless some mindless entity deliberately tears jeans and sells it as fashion successfully,   in this garden, a bird pecked strawberry wins against monsantoized fruit....

The Shabri Bird.

Direct Involved
Pecking Sweetness Research,
(DIPSR )** at the correct time
so the plant cytokines
may spread the word
to the younger
developing lot,
on how to be
a wonderful strawberry,
confident and comfortable
in its own sweetness
unlike those who follow
commercial standards.....

The plant probably listens ,
unlike us
who ignore the Shabris of our life.


** DIPSR : in a city full of acronimized central institutions , I thought this fitted in rather well  :-)

 

शेंगदाणायन.....

महाशिवरात्रीचा उपास , आणि तयारी एक दोन दिवस आधी सुरु होते .  माझी फेस्बुकीय मैत्रीण प्रीती देव , हिने दाणे  भाजता भाजता काढलेला फोटो पोस्ट केला , आणि आजकालच्या आधुनिक जगात दाणे  भाजण्याचे कुठले तंत्रज्ञान  लोकप्रिय  आहे  याचा आढावा घेणार प्रश्न  विचारला  ….

वाळूत भाजलेले, भट्टीत भाजलेले ,  कढईत  चटके खात , डाग पडत पडत भाजलेले , आणि अगदी "इश्श्य ! मायक्रोवेव असताना  कढई कशाला ?  " म्हणत  फेर आणि लव्हली दिसणारे भाजलेले दाणे .

आणि मग आयुष्याचा शेवट  एखाद्या दाण्याच्या  कुटाच्या हात-यंत्रात , नाहीतर अगदी चुरा करणार्या मिक्सर मध्ये होतो , आणि उरते फक्त त्या दाण्यांची सुंदर चव ….

प्रीतीने  काढलेला  फ़ोटो :

  

गावरान शेंगाशयातून बाहेर पडलेल्या वसुंधरेच्या लेकी , आणि वयात आल्यावर त्यांच्यावर झालेले संस्कार . आपली नैसर्गिक मंद गुलाबी त्वचा , रंग रंगोटी च्या जगाच्या पद्धती ; कधी समुद्राच्या वाळूत एका मोठ्या कढईत, आरामात उबदार होणे , आणि मधूनच स्वतःला झटकून बाहेर पडणे; कधी एखाद्या भट्टीत शौर्य गाजवून युद्धाच्या खुणा दाखवत बाहेर पडणे ; कधी एका पारंपारिक लोखंडी कढईत विहार करत घरातल्या गृहिणी कडे बघत हट्टाने डावाशी दोन हात करणे , आणि मग कधीतरी भाजक्या सुगंधात गुंग होउन नकळत आयुष्यातल्या चकमकीची फळे स्वतःवर लेउन परातीत विश्रांती घेणे . आजकाल वसुंधरे च्या लेकीना जागतिकीकरण समजलाय … थोडा थोडा फेर आणि लव्हलीचा ही असर पडलाय . आधुनिक लेकी मायक्रोवेव्ह फ़ेशिअल करतात , एका चीनी मातीच्या भांड्यात पडून राहतात , जास्त चौकश्या करणार्या काचेच्या सटातून डोळे फाडून बघतात , आणि अगदी डाग विरहित बाहेर पडतात .

आणि मग एकिकडे भिशीसाठी जमलेल्या साबुदाणा काकू , वरे आजी, राताळेमाव्शी, काकडीताई आणि शिङ्गाडाबेन एकिमेकीकडे बघत म्हणतात , " काय आहे , आजकालच्या दाण्याना न , नवीन प्रयोग करायला आवडतात ; पण कसं असतं , आम्ही साधी माणसं ; मनात काय आहे , अथवा आयुष्यातल्या अनुभवाचे रंग तोंडावर जर दिसले तर आमचा विश्वास वाढतो… " आणि एकीकडे एक आधुनिक कूल निष्कलंक दाणाई कोरेल च्या सटातून एक जळजळीत कटाक्ष टाकते आणि म्हणते , "इतकं सगळं फेर आणि लव्हली करून शेवटी मिक्सर मध्ये आयुष्याचा चुराडाच होणार , हे माहित न्हवतं …… "

To Give is Divine ....

My friend , Nutsure Satwik , just posted this amazing capture  of  communication between ordinary types and Gods.

At a time, when allegiances to "Gods" change at the drop of a hat or a jingle in the pocket,  there is much to learn from those in nature, who have not evolved , like us  so called, advanced humans .

It isn't really about dealing with a power;  It is about making a heartfelt simple offering ....   no strings attached.


 Photograph titled  तेरे पूजन में ,  by Nutsure Satwik.

कितीतरी देव, कितीतरी भक्त , काही लांब पल्ल्याचे , काही तात्पुरते, काही शक्तीशाली प्रबळ , काही खास लोकाग्रहास्तव , काही स्वयंघोषित , काहींचे पायाशी लोटांगण , देण्या घेण्याचे हिशोब आणि नवस, आणि कान आणि डोळे बंद ठेवण्याची अद्भुत कला . आणि मग एका हिरवाईत आजच्या पर्यावरणात बुडलेला , फ़ळाफ़ुलात वसलेला , आजूबाजूच्या जगाचे निरीक्षण करणारा एक शेंदूर संपन्न बाप्पा , आणि स्वतह्साठी काहीही न मागता बाप्पाला द्यायचे ते गोडच असावे ह्यासाठी प्रत्येक अन्नाची चव घेउन , पूजा अर्पण करणारे शबरी पक्षी . ओरबाडून घेणार्याना , हे देणे कसे समजणार ?

So many Gods, so many devotees , of so many persuasions. Some long term, some temporary, some raging strong some by popular demand, and some self appointed. Much falling at feet, strict accounting of give-and-take, sometimes mannats, and the amazing ability to keep ears and eyes conveniently shut. And then , somewhere deep in the greenery of life, reveling in the environment, flowering and fruiting, a vermilion deity watching it all go by; And to one side, a Shabri Bird, offering food to Him, as pooja, only after tasting it to confirm that it is sweet. Those that grab and collect will never understand , will they ?

एका दुधाची गोष्ट.....

आज माझी फेसबुकची मैत्रीण निहारिका भिडे  , हिने  ताज्या लोण्याच्या आठवणी अचानक जाग्या केल्या.  लहानपणी बघितलेल्या आणि काही घरांमध्ये अजूनही राज्य करणाऱ्या  रव्या ,  आणि दही घुसळून बनणारे  अदमोरे ताक ,  अचानक तरंगणारे ताजे लोणी ,  त्या लोण्याचे सन्सनाटी  आयुष्य ,

आणि मग अग्निपरीक्शेने प्रगट होणारे   तूप . 

एकिकडे तूप साखर लोणी आणि पोळी /ब्रेड ,  भाकऱ्या /लोणी , चकल्या/लोणी , आणि मग अचानक त्याच्या दुग्ध भूतकाळ  सामोरा येतो … 

एक विचारवंत दही ,
मन घट्ट करून
आपल्या कौटुंबिक इतिहासाचे मनन
करण्यात मग्न.

एका वासराच्या हिश्यात्ला भाग ,
चुलीवर ढवळून निघालेल्या उकळ्या ,
कधी स्वस्थ कोमट आराम ,
मग काही स्वप्नांना लागलेले विरजण ,

कर्मभोग कधी सुटत नाहीत ,
आणि मग एका रवी ने केलेलं मंथन ,
मधूनच हळुवार ताकात फिरणे ,
कधीतरी बर्फाचे पाणी थोडे घालणे ,
मग खेळकर बाळ लोण्याना एकत्रित करणे,
झेलणे ,
आणि समजावून ,
अलगद पाण्याच्या वाडग्यात ठेवणे .

एकिकडे ताक
आपले प्रारब्ध लक्षात घेउन,
कधी गोड,
कधी आले-मिरची युक्त ,
आणि कधी हिंगाष्टक घालून
अत्म्समर्पणास तयार .


काही लोण्याची जन्मवेळ शुभ ,
आणि ते
कौतुकाने साखरेबरोबर ,
मधाबरोबर,
अगदी भाकरी आणि चकली बरोबर सुधा
उर्वरीत आयुश्य बेततात

पूर्व कर्माची फळे
आयुष्भर भोगावीच लागतात .
वयात आलेल्या लोण्याची
मग कढई परीक्षा ;
एका काळ्या लोखंडी रागावलेल्या कढईत
असहाय्यपणे पडणे ,
कुणा एका हळदीच्या पानाने
"आगोबाई, जरा उशीरच झाला हो …"
म्हणत समजवायला येणे ,
आणि मग हळु हळू
सर्व स्वप्नांचा एक बेरी चुराडा होऊन
एका सुबक सोनेरी साजूक तुपाच्या
तळाशी गोळा होणे .

ओट्यावर मनन करण्यार्या दह्याला कळून चुकतं ,
की वासराच्या हिश्याचे घेतल्याने ,
धडा म्हणून,
व आपल्याला दुसर्याचे मन कळावे ,
म्हणून
दुधाला इतक्या क्रीयाकार्मातून जावे लाग्ते.

आपल्या नशिबात असते
ते कधी चुकत नाही ,
आणि आपण इतके विद्वान
की आपण त्यातून काही शिकत नाही .      

Matching, matching !

If you think idlis and beauty have nothing to do with each other , think again.

If you think idlis are just about beauty and have no social conscience , think again .

My friend Deepak Amembal, simply restrained himself from immediately digging into this amazing breakfast, till he clicked this photo and posted it.

I just got full seeing it, had my cup of chai, and wrote this poem.  :-)


 

Being beautiful
is not about being
Fair and lovely,
or stubbornly puffing up
in fermented anger
in a steaming world.

It is about
acknowledging,
that the surrounding saambaar
with its participating
colorful veggies
golden onions,
conservative stiff kadhipattas,
and hidden tangy imli
makes you and your life
even more beautiful.

And humoring
a young chutney,
that thinks
it adds to the beauty,
and insists on joining up,
saying,
"Matching , matching ?"

Baba Endorphin goes to school .....

Again and again , something in our anatomy , that reflects society.

This is a visual , supposed to be of a myosin protein molecule dragging a big ball of endorphins along an active filament into the inner part of the brain's parietal cortex. (video courtesy Youtube)

Endorphins produces feelings of happiness on being sensed by the brain.

You could even possibly set this to music .

Or you could imagine a Mom, treading carefully along a narrow path, leading a playful chubby son to school .

Try ....

Ma Myosin
harried amidst
a multitasking life
beset with a messaging public
creating so much
cortex traffic.

And she gently leads
a playful Baba Endorphin
along the synaptic life path,
holding him firmly,
waving to a
neuron here,
glaring at a glia there ,
step by step.

A short distance away,
the Parietal Kindergaarten awaits
a chance to celebrate
the arrival of Baba,
lighting up the filament path
for Ma Myosin.

Fake Posers, Kharis, and Life.....

Khari,  the flaky , crumble-and-melt-in-the-mouth-while-awaiting-the-tea-onslaught biscuits, for some,  are nostalgia , and all about having tea at chai tapris , with a plateful of these sourced from a big glass bottle. Some even enjoy it for breakfast...

My friend , Nutsure Satwik,  probably posted this photo, in between , crackles of these interspersed with sips of amrut-tulya tea.... 

Growing up in a house where maida was persona-non-grata,  and we had an electrified stone grinder (जातं ) , long before it became a commercial product,  there was a certain sense of earthiness in what one ate then, whole wheat, veggies and home made butter/ghee (in controlled quantities) , dal khichadi with veggies and poha papad , for breakfast and so on .

And so Khaaris , do not inspire a longing in me.  

They inspire poetry .  :-)

Such a refined life.

A wheaty parentage,
cousins
of the roti-phulka brigade,
but these are a class apart,
obsessed and hi fi ,
sifting out
the hoi polloi earthy browns
and the wheat germ types.

They are like that only.

A craze for Fair and Lovely,
thin translucent skins,
slathered with
face washes of tumultous ghee,
and folded over and over
in an effort
at not leaving anything out
in a effort
to impress.

A societal "coming out" party,
a blooming
in a hot oven,
and a pose
displaying the layers and innards
stiff with fashion.

And a Paratha,
rich with
onion, mint and mooli kids,
smoulders in a plate
next to the dahi
and pickle,
and says,
"When will these
powerful refined folks learn,
that life isn't about
sitting safe and uncrushed
in a bottle,
with special security,
pretending to slum it
with cutting chais in tapris;
but about honestly mixing
with
other green children of the earth
and creating
a new useful day
with them,
on the Tawa of your Life ...."

As the alu said to the dahi,
"It is all
about convenience and show;
Did you see
how they used me for votes
with Samosabhai in Bihar ?"